The sun is shining today, a big round ball of yellowness, and a cactus is sitting on a table. A coffee cup is sitting on the table and steaming.
"I'm moving into a house where I'm the sixth roommmate." The devices get smaller and the smell of cooking potatoes eminates from the other room. Some sort of hard rock is on the stereo, and I am sitting in the red and square-padded chair. There is a slight breeze from the ceiling fans, and the atmosphere is slow and just as the atmosphere of most Sundays in this little town.
The elements of nature cohere and split apart as they tend toward chaos, and I convince myself that I simply enjoy the physical process of writing more than what I am actually writing. I could be scribbling and get the same effect.
The guy that reminds me of Rasputin pedals by on his bike, making a glare in this direction, but what to make that? Increasingly, I lay out my words in lengthening sentences as the clocks wind around the face and the mania of owning things comes and goes, and the quintillions ripen, and the quintillions green.